Crown of Thorns
by grumkinsnark
Summary: He's already cursed by this castle, by these responsibilities he'd never wanted thrust upon him—why would she curse him further? What could she possibly do to him?


_Prompt: Why was a teenaged prince the one answering the palace door?_

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 **Crown of Thorns**

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They're arguing again. In this big of a castle, with his chambers clear across from his parents', it should be impossible to hear them, but it isn't. It rouses him from sleep, every time they quarrel, like clockwork. It's maddening, not being able to discern individual words or sentences, only the rumbling tones of his father and the high-pitched yells of his mother. The worst part is, they always pretend as though everything is fine. They lie to his face, without fail.

Even if he _didn't_ hear them arguing, he would know they did, for the next morning his mother touches his shoulder or kisses his cheek— _she never does otherwise_ —and his father will call him "son" and cross practice swords with him for half an hour— _he never notices me otherwise_ —and he hates himself because he relishes those moments, no matter their cause. What kind of son does that make him? What kind of parents does that make them? Adam wouldn't know. He's never had any different.

The servants are kind to him, usually. Mrs. Potts always brews him a special pot of tea, the one with mint leaves and a dash of chocolate, Lumière always makes sure the candles in his room are fresh and there's a match nearby, just in case he wants to hold the darkness at bay. Cogsworth tries, though it's rarely very helpful; often, he ends up merely adding a few minutes of recreation time to the schedule. The cooks prepare extra sweets for him, Babette has his room spotless, the master-at-arms lets him use real, live steel in training and doesn't ream him out when he errs.

It would all be great, were it not done in abject _pity_. He sees the looks they give him, notices the whispers. He'd known from a young age he's not what his parents wanted, and the servants know it, too. He'd had an older brother, once upon a time. His parents were grooming him to be their heir, taught him every quirk of the local lords and ladies, taught him fairness and trade routes, made him learn every acre of the property, every nook and cranny of the castle. Adam was taught things, too, sums and letters and the names of lords, but only insofar as it was required for a noble's son. The castle wasn't his to inherit, after all. He'd get a tract of land elsewhere to manage, maybe get married off to the second daughter of a lesser family.

His parents hadn't even bothered with trying for a third child, for their eldest was that promising.

And then his brother died at the age of seventeen, ravaged by the fever that had spread around the villages, and _Adam_ was their only option. And they hated him for it. They never said it in as many words, but he knew. He's _always_ known. Their bickering had started in earnest then, each parent blaming the other for his brother's death, each one with a different idea on what to do with Adam and how they could _possibly_ have him live up to his dead brother's potential.

Adam had never wanted any of it. True, the prestige would have been exhilarating, and he's memorized the castle and its grounds better than anyone, but he would much rather have been able to have freedom to do what he wished. Take his horse to the far edges of the earth and not have a care in the world.

(That doesn't happen.)

Because his parents die, too, on his eleventh birthday no less. They'd both taken a ship across the sea to take care of some manner of business, had said they'd only be gone for a fortnight. It had been a marvelous time for him, and even the servants seemed to have lightened. He'd lost track of Lumière and Babette for days on end, but it didn't matter because the master-at-arms was teaching him to practice left-handed for fun— _That's pointless, Adam!_ his father would say. _You practice right or not at all_ —and the master of horse let him gallop his father's prize steed until its champagne coat gleamed with sweat.

The letter came at midday, after a generous breakfast, detailing that a storm had struck the boat and all passengers were presumed dead. He'd been presented with the will—the deed to the castle, as well as everything else that entailed. It would be up to him, the steward had said, to appoint a regent for the time being, and would he like a list of candidates or would he like to choose for himself?

He's not sad, he's _furious_.

 _He'd never wanted this!_ How dare they leave him with it all? They were probably grateful, in the end, that they didn't have to deal with him, or that whatever regent was chosen would end up supplanting him and he'd be left destitute. He'd heard as much in their arguments, anyway.

So when the old woman comes to the door and asks him for lodgings in exchange for a single red rose, it's all he can do to not curse her out, to expend all his frustration and hatred on her. She hadn't done anything, none of this is _her_ fault—whoever she is—but she's an available target and if she doesn't leave soon, he'll lose it. He can already feel the scream building in his chest, boiling and frothing.

She persists, asks him for shelter again, as though there isn't an inn only a few miles from here at which she could stay instead. She says something about beauty, evidently thinking he cares only for the fact that she's haggard and couldn't possibly have anything else on his mind, and he can't help the sneer that curls his lips. He turns her away, the scream battened down, and he assumes that's the end of it. Except then the doors blow open, shattering the hinges and allowing the tempest that howls outside to rush into the foyer. And in place of the old crone there is a woman so exquisite he is struck silent. Yet beneath that comely veneer there is a shrewdness, a righteous vengeance that chills him to the bone.

It's obvious what she is: an enchantress. His governess had told him stories about them, mythical figures with motives all their own, who were made of smoke and shadow and curses. He hadn't thought them _real_ , had thought his governess was weaving a tale of morals, yet here she is, and he can do nothing but fall to his knees and apologize. He's already cursed by this castle, by these responsibilities thrust upon him, why would she possibly curse him further? What could she possibly do to him?

He's answered, of course, a moment later when her beautiful face contorts with cruelty. The scream he'd restrained is dragged from him then, a shearing agony breaking apart every vein, tearing every muscle, stretching every limb. He watches in horror as his body warps and twists, as his nails elongate and his teeth sharpen until they cut his lips bloody. Fur sprouts from his skin, matted and brown like the bear his brother had once trapped. His forehead burns and burns until _something_ sprouts from it, two hard masses that grow thick and pointed. Behind him, above him, all around him, he feels a dark magic coalescing, blackening the grounds and charring the castle stone. He tries to cry out for Mrs. Potts, for Lumière, for _anyone_ , but all that comes out is a monstrous roar, echoing through the foyer and reverberating in his ears. He can hear a rabbit sniffing from a hundred yards away, hear the distant brook bubbling, and the roar nearly deafens him.

Through it all, the enchantress is there, observing her handiwork, and when his anguish subsides just enough so his faculties are restored, she warns him that should he not find someone to love him within the next ten years, nor love her in return, he would remain this _thing_ forever with no hope of returning to normal. The rose, she says, would serve as his timepiece, a visual reminder of his life ticking away, with some magic mirror his only way to view anything beyond the castle walls.

 _How had it all gone so wrong?_

He lashes out at her, but it's fruitless—she vanishes, leaving behind only a cackling laugh and a boy who was already trapped in one hell and is now in another.


End file.
